A Housecarl's story: The Sage of Wraecwulf
by HammerOfNihilism
Summary: The tale and background story of Wraecwulf Ranulfson, a man without a kingdon, and without a lord.
1. Chapter 1: The Day Our Lordaeron Died

**Chapter One: The Day Our Lordaeron Died**

There have been many difficult times in my life, but this was the toughest. It was getting cold, I had been two days without sleep, and fighting almost every hour for my life. And worse than that, my King was dead, and my kingdom fractured. We never saw it coming.

Arthas had returned. But it was not to declare victory against the undead, in the name of Lordaeron. The Prince returned a new man, if you could even call him that. That day, he became a king-slayer, and a kin-slayer. That was the day my kingdom died.

My name is Wraecwulf, son of Ranulf. Which would make me Wraecwulf Ranulfson. My father, like my brothers, my mother, and the people I knew are dead. They died in what is now known as the Eastern Plaguelands, back when the Plague of Undeath ravaged so many towns and cities. I was one of a few who survived that hell, along with my lord, and several others of his household troops.

And now we were running for our lives again. Rather, retreating in an orderly fashion. Lordaeron was dead, and it's people fractured. Or dead. You could still see the flames from Capital City as we marched southward. We were refugees now—Men, women, and children without a kingdom. All were headed South, and if fate was kind, we would reach Stormwind.

My lord, Aelfric, had dedicated himself and his household troops to the rearguard actions providing cover and safety for the non-combatants. We were not the only soldiers, however. Many men in the plate armor and tabards of Lordaeron had survived the Scourge onslaught, and were doing what they could to allow the civilians to reach safety.

Ambushes and head-on attacks happened numerous times, daily. And it had been like that for three days now. Aelfric's housecarls had taken heavy casualties, and where we had numbered fifty, we were now thirty. Always, we made the center of the line in head-on attacks, as that was our specialty. We were trained in the way of the shield wall, and it was always the housecarls who stood in the center, oaken shields defiantly facing the tides of dead flesh.

"Been quiet today."

Startled, I looked up and found my lord, Aelfric walking beside me. I have met many nobles in my time. Living in a kingdom, you cannot avoid it. And the one thing that I've learned is that real fighting men are a rarity amongst the nobility. Where most nobles are aloof and prefer to let others shed blood for them, Aelfric was right there in the heat of battle. I had known the man since I was a boy, and though he was ageing, he still had a lot of fight left in him.

"Aye." I replied, still unused to the companionship Aelfric was displaying. It was not uncommon of him, but as a common born man, talking with a noble-born man as an equal was strange for me. It still is. "But that means we'll be hit harder than ever before the day is over."

Aelfric nodded in response. He seemed ancient in that moment, and his hair and beard seemed grayer than I remembered it being just a few days ago. We continued on in companionable silence for some time, throwing wary glances over our shoulders every few minutes. Finally, my lord stopped, and turned around. I did as well, and watched as he stared off into the distance, towards the pillars of black smoke smearing the horizon.

"I wish I had known what would happen—The grain, I mean. I had no idea. Had I know…" Aelfric stopped, running a hand through his long, graying brown hair. I despaired, as it seemed like my lord would break.

"But you didn't. There was no way any of us could have known. You and I, and the others, were fortunate enough not to have eaten the bread. You did what you could, Lord. And you're doing what you can now, protecting these people." I gestured towards the caravan trundling up ahead of us.

Some of the other Housecarls had noticed us, and stopped, expecting trouble. Aelfric gave them a weak smile and waved them on. I could understand my Lord's pain. I had lost my family in those early days of the Plague, as well as all my neighbors and friends. There was nothing left of the handful of villages Aelfric ruled. He lost a wife and five children to the plague as well. And more than that, our king was dead. As loyal servants of Lordaeron, that hurt more than anything else.

"You're right, Wulf, I know you are. It doesn't help much, though I thank you for your words."

I nodded in response, and turned as my lord did, to rejoin the caravan. I made the mistake of yawning. Aelfric looked at me for a long moment, then slapped me on the back.

"Get some goddamn sleep Wulf. You're dead on your feet."

I stammered. "But Lord, you need it more than—"

"Bah!" He waved his hand dismissively, and I could see some of the old fire in him flaring. "I'll be fine. Besides, someone needs to keep watch. Tell the rest of the men to get what sleep they can on the wagons as well. I'll take some soldiers to stand watch with me."

I wanted to protest, but because I felt like I was going to pass out on the roadside, I reluctantly shuffled off to the nearest wagon, after passing the order on to the rest of the Housecarls. As I lay in a bed of hay, staring up at the dead gray sky, I remember thinking we might actually get out of this alive.

Never count your chickens before they hatch.

Maybe two hours later, I was torn from a dream involving a certain tavern wench I had fancied back home by an ear splitting shriek. Within seconds, I was out of the wagon, pulling on my mail shirt, strapping my shield to my arm, and slamming my helmet down on my head. It was dark, very dark, but ahead of me torches were burning where the rearguard was mustering. I felt as exhausted as I had before I fell asleep, and the weight of the war-ax across my back felt like an anvil. I pushed my way through plated soldiers until I found my own group.

Aelfric was standing with his Housecarls, and I was the last to arrive. I returned greetings from my comrades, and took my place in the huddle. Aelfric looked grimmer than usual, which was saying something, as he'd been nothing but grim since Lordaeron fell.

"This looks to be the big one, boys. We're almost out of Lordaeron, and something out there wants us, bad. No trickery, no ambushes, it'll be a head-on attack. That shriek you heard, that was out scout. He won't be coming back. You know what that means?"

Grumbles and exaggerated groans answered Aelfric. We were in surprisingly good spirits. I guess it was the fact that the waiting was finally over, and now we'd get to do something, anything besides walk.

"Exactly my thoughts. So we're in the center. I want a ten man shield wall, three lines deep. I'd make it bigger, but the press we're about to face would break a larger wall. I've advised the soldiers—" He gestured to the plated warriors all around us. "—To do the same. They'll form up on either side of us, I'll take center spot in the line. Beornoth, I want my standard behind me."

So we had our plan, and within five minutes, our meager forces were drawn up in a shield wall. I reckoned our total number to be maybe a two hundred. It seemed what little there was left of the command structure of the military forces accompanying us had taken Aelfric's advice, and had drawn up a shield wall, joined to ours, three ranks deep. It was awkward joining the walls because these men were not trained as well as we were at such tactics. Not to mention their bulky armor made the close quarters of the shield wall difficult to maintain, and their shields were shaped differently. But for better or for worse, we'd have to hold.

Word was passed around within our own ranks. Aelfric expected the soldiers to falter first. Not for lack of courage, but because it was difficult for them to maintain a shield wall. When that happened, we were ordered to make a fighting retreat, to catch up to the caravan, which was at least three miles ahead of us by now.

I have fought in many battles over the years, in the Third War, in the Outlands against the Burning Legion, and in the frozen climes of Northrend in repayment for Arthas' crimes. But no matter how many fights I'm in, the waiting beforehand never changes. The silence before the enemy shows it's face, the fear, and the moment that stretches forever where all you can do is grit your teeth and hope you make it out alive.

And there I was, standing amidst a line of warriors, the faceplate of my helm obscuring my vision of everything not directly in front of me. I thought about my family, about my village, my childhood, and what I would do if I lived. My limbs felt like lead, and my shield like a boulder. I thought our pitiful thirty men looked strange amongst the soldiers of Lordaeron, for we looked so different.

I remembered the time I spend wearing that same plate and tabard, fondly remembering how much I hated the clumsy steel shell. I remembered the honor that position had brought as well, and how it had led me to where I was now, serving a good lord in a desperate battle in what seemed to me at the time like the end of the world.

Mercifully, my thoughts ended there, because at that moment, the enemy appeared. I find it strange that we never heard them approach. We should have, and perhaps we did, and my memory is faulty. But come they did, and quietly nevertheless. Hundreds of rotting corpses, still wearing plate armor, peasants clothes, and even the livery of the noble-born. Some looked fresh, only a day old, others were bloated and black, dripping necrotic fluids as they walked. Behind the mass of undead came giant patchwork monstrosities wielding massive hooks and cleavers. I was about ready to decide the battle was hopeless when my mind was made up for me.

The horde of undead parted, and a large figure, cased in black plate armor rode to the head of the battle line upon what looked like a horse birthed in hell. Murmurs ran up and down our shield wall. _Death Knight _the men said. I was familiar with the name, but I had never seen one. The ghouls, even the patchwork giants I had encountered since the plague had come to Lordaeron, but never a Death Knight. And this one lived up to everything I had heard about them. Man or woman, whatever it was, was huge, at least a head and a half taller than me, and I am a tall man. It was twice as broad as a soldier in plate armor, and it had a massive mace strapped across it's back.

"Who commands this rabble?" It said in a voice that seemed both near and far away at the same time. The hellsteed came to a halt ten feet from our shield wall, and I remember the air becoming frigid as the Death Knight neared our lines.

Silence greeted the Knight, and it was a long handful of seconds before someone answered.

"I reckon I do." I recognized the voice. It was Aelfric, who broke ranks stepped a couple feet out from the wall.

The Death Knight remained silent, and I suppose it was sizing Aelfric up. The horse screeched impatiently, and the Death Knight turned the horses' flank towards us. "And you are?"

Aelfric crossed his arms, and lifted his head. "Aelfric Haraldson, formerly a baron in service to the King of Lordaeron. And you?"

The Death Knight ignored the question, and slid off its horse. Without a command given, the hellsteed ran off into the darkness, trailing blue flame. "You've done an admirable job of keeping us away, Baron Haraldson. But make no mistake, we will crush you tonight, and we will catch your precious caravan. They will never reach Stormwind. Regardless of your answer to what I'm about to offer you, you will serve the Lich King. But I offer you willing servitude, power…the immortality of undeath!" It hissed, taking several steps towards Aelfric, who refused to waver in the presence of such power.

"You mean, become you?" Aelfric replied, loading his words with as much scorn as he could muster.

A harsh rasping, coughing sound filled the air, and I realized that the Death Knight must have been laughing. "Something like that, yes. As I said, you will serve no matter the answer. But you can either profit from it, or become one of those." The creature gestured towards the mass of mindless ghouls standing opposite of our shield wall.

Aelfric glanced at the ghouls, back to the Death Knight, and then towards us. We remained defiant, grim determination written on our faces. All of us, Housecarl and Soldier alike had seen what horror creatures like this one had brought to our homeland, and though death was a surety, we refused to bend a knee. I don't think our faces made any difference in Aelfric's decision, and indeed, most of our faces were hidden behind our helms anyways.

My lord smiled at us, winked, and turned back to the Death Knight, his expression blank.

To our astonishment, Aelfric went down on one knee, and said in a solemn voice. "My Lord, I wish to swear fealty to your king."

Murmurs and cries of indignation ran through our shield wall, though us Housecarls remained silent. They must not have seen Aelfric's wink.

The Death Knight hissed, which I took to mean it was pleased. It stepped forward, until it was less than a foot in front of Aelfric. It's hand moved slowly to the mace strapped across it's back. "You will not regret your decision, Baron Aelfric. The Lich King will be pl—"

That was about as far as the Death Knight got, before Aelfric barreled into the creature, his mailed shoulder slamming into the Knight's midriff. As mighty as it seemed, it still toppled over in a chorus of screeching metal meeting hard earth. Cheers filled the air, along with scorching insults and jeers.

But Aelfric was not finished, and neither was the Death Knight.

Seeking to finish the job quickly, Aelfric had advanced on his foe, and sought to stab his sword down through the gap in the Death Knight's demonic faceplate. We roared, smelling victory, but as the blade slammed home, it found only the earth to sink into. I do not know how the creature managed that feat of agility in such a bulky suit of armor, but managed it had, and it was back on it's feet.

Aelfric barely had the time to raise his shield as the massive ebon mace hit him. The shield splintered, spraying the area with deadly slivers of wood, several of which stuck into my shield. My lord was thrown head first into our wall, and men instinctively parted to make his landing less painful.

Swearing like a drunken sailor, Aelfric was helped to his feet. Large splinters of wood were embedded in his arm, which was clearly broken. But, being the tough bastard, he had a man strap a new shield to his arm, and his arm across his chest.


	2. Chapter 2: A Song and Dance

**Chapter Two: A Song and Dance**

The Death Knight stood before us, staring, and the aura of hate surrounding him was almost as tangible as a mace to the face. We all stared back, and someone, somewhere in the line, started screaming at it. And suddenly, we all joined in. Men broke ranks, made obscene gestures, or spat on the ground in derision. Weapons beat against shields. I screamed until my voice was hoarse and dry.

Through it all, Aelfric's standard, a black raven sitting atop the crest of Lordaeron, hung limply from its pole.

Once more, the air grew quiet, as men lost their voices, and the Death Knight walked back towards it's waiting horde. We all exchanged glances with each other, grim faces hidden behind faceplates and beneath aventails. And that's when the enemy gave it's own war cry.

I say war cry, because there is no real word to describe the sounds. It was, if anything, a chorus of the damned. Hundreds of dead throats groaning, gurgling, gasping, hissing, growling, wailing—a wall of aural torment. So powerful was the feeling that our whole line took two or three steps back.

As our line stepped backwards, the Scourge advanced. There were so many of them that the ground seemed to tremble beneath their tread. The Death Knight led the charge. There was much space between our line and theirs, but their advance seemed to take forever. Men were wavering, mostly the soldiers, and our left and right flanks began to bend backwards before the battle had even begun. I do not blame them. The thought of fleeing had crossed my mind numerous times over the course of the night.

"Over river an' stream, an' through forest an' field, they marched…" The voice cut through the sound of the advancing horde like a knife.

"…With fire in their eyes!" Came a chorus of replies. Somewhere down the line, a man started banging a spear against his shield in time with the words.

We all joined in. As we had earlier, we banged weapons on shields, stamped our feet. Our flanks straightened out, and a breeze picked at Aelfric's standard. Closer and closer, and I wondered why they weren't just charging mindlessly at our shield-wall.

"To death we do go, but we'll let them know…"

I wondered if I had left a suitable tip at that tavern in Capital City. Hope so.

"…The power of Lordaeron's might!"

A good song, a fine chant. Fit to light a fire in a man's belly. I'm surprised I still remember the words.

"Here they come lads, eyes to the front, plant your feet, and keep those goddamn shields locked!"

Here it comes, here it co—

Slam. Stagger. Push. Slash. Slam. Stagger. Push. Step forward. Slash. – That is, in essence, what a shield wall is. It is not an open fight, where men of both sides fight on their own, where lines become non-existent. That is a hell all of it's own. I have fought many times in both, and every time, I would choose an open battlefield.

The sound is deafening. The sound of claws on steel, the screams of dying men, shouts of encouragement, and grunts as the lines shift and move. You're also blind half the time. My arm was numb within seconds, my legs hurt from pushing against the tide, my shield was being torn to pieces, and I was bleeding from numerous cuts. Gripping my sword was hell because it was completely covered in rancid blood.

A spear blade slammed into my shield, piercing my shield hand. I screamed with hate and slammed my short sword into the leering, dead face in front of me. Slime spilt from the wound, covering my sword hand. The rotting corpse dropped, and our line moved forward another step. A man to my left, a soldier, glanced at my hand. The spear, still whole, was still hanging from my shield, and the man did me a small favor by hacking the spear shaft off, leaving only the blade. I thanked him, through clenched teeth, and moved forward with the line.

We had already left a trail of death behind us. It was carnage comparable to what I had witnessed during the second war, against the hated Orc. Surprisingly, very few of our side had fallen, and the flanks were holding. But that meant nothing. Only a few minutes had passed since the start of the battle, and we were fighting against a foe that knew neither fear nor exhaustion. As if that weren't enough, their number seemed to be limitless.

An axe descended towards my head, but was checked at the last minute by a fellow Housecarl, who turned the blow with his own shield. For his trouble, he took a pitchfork to the guts. He fell to the ground, and I sent his killer to hell. Another man took up his place instantly, putting his comrade out of misery as he stepped up beside me. Another creature tried to drag my shield down, but I slammed my shield into it's face, the rotting bone collapsing beneath iron and wood. I stamped on it's head a few more times just to make sure it wouldn't get up, and moved another step forward with the line.

That's when I noticed the patchwork abominations hadn't joined the battle, and neither had the Death Knight. Perhaps he had retreated just as the lines met? I guessed he was judging which flank was the weakest, or whether the center would break first. Anything was possible. Our center line was only two ranks thick in most places, one in a few. The flanks were bending backwards, and if it kept going that way, we could end up being surrounded.

So far, we had advanced a whole ten feet. That was it. Ten feet. Against a living opponent, that might have been seen as progress, but against a foe that showed no intention of slowing or thinning out, it was ultimately meaningless. And men were beginning to tire. Pushing, struggling, staggering, tripping, slashing, and killing for ten hard won feet is exhausting.

My shield splintered beneath an axe blow, almost taking my hand off. I snarled and kicked my attacker back, a ghoul dressed in plate that toppled over in a heap of rusting metal. I used the respite to rip the spear blade out of my hand and toss my shield to the ground. I cursed when I realized my spare shield, beaten and battered itself, had been left on one of the wagons in the caravan. Being without a shield in a shield wall is a huge liability, so I drew my war-axe and switched places with the man behind me.

The next few minutes were spent heaving and shoving the man in front of me, supporting him when a fresh wave of enemies hit the wall, and helping him move forward whenever possible. It was more tiring than actually fighting, and by now my breaths were ragged and short. I felt like I would pass out.

And then the wall broke. The abominations, led by the Death Knight slammed into the left flank, and pieces of men went flying. I swore, and the man in front of me swore. Then his head caved in. Dead tired, half blinded by brain matter and blood, I staggered back as the man's body hit the ground. His killer, a large ghoul with a war hammer, shambled over the body and swung the weapon at my chest. The blow would have collapsed my rib cage and sent half my guts out of my mouth, but I staggered drunkenly backwards. As the weapon passed, and took a step forward, and brought my axe down on the creature's head. Black brain matter, yellow fluids, and skull fragments painted my face and weapon.

An open battle broke out, as the shield wall disintegrated, and every man fought for himself. On the left, it was pure carnage. Bodies in plate armor were heaped two or three high, and the dirt road had become a soupy mix of mud and body fluids. Only one of the abominations had fallen, dragged down by a mass of desperate men. The rest were cleaving their way through the survivors of the left flank. Aelfric pulled his men, now only eighteen in number, into a close knot as the right flank broke.

"Alright boys, we're getting out of here. We move fast. Shields up in the rear. Once we get to the far side of this mass, we break formation and run for it. Understood?"

Those of us able to do so nodded. Aelfric looked at me and Beornoth, his standard bearer.

"We need a path cleared, you two. Feeling hungry?" Despite the situation, a savage grin split his face. It was infectious. We both knew what he meant, though I was far more reluctant to do what was being asked than Beornoth.

"Aye, I reckon we could both use a bite to eat, lord."

We started to move. Beornoth had handed the standard over to Aelfric, who kept the banner held high. I fumbled through the pouches on my belt, too tired and worried to find what I was looking for immediately. After a couple seconds of fumbling around like an idiot, I found my herb pouch. I took one of the dried, red mushrooms from inside, and shoved it in my mouth. I began to chew, exchanging looks with Beornoth, who had already eaten his.

I hadn't even swallowed the whole thing before my tongue started tingling. My blood felt like molten metal, and my hair felt like fire. The deafening sound of war faded, replaced by the thunderous beating of my heart. Beornoth's incoherent battle cry was a dull keening at the edge of my perceptions, and my vision turned the color of freshly spilt blood. The berserk fury had taken me, my sanity locked away in a cage.


	3. Chapter 3: The Benefits of Insanity

**Interlude**

At this point in the story, my own recollection of the following events are spotty at best. I remember bits and pieces, literally and figuratively. So, I will include in this next portion of my tale, an excerpt from the journal of Raynar, another Housecarl in the service of Aelfric. He provides a far more accurate account of what happens next than what I can offer.

**Chapter Three: The Benefits of Insanity**

_…And I thought the battle was lost! Trapped in the middle of a massacre, like an island amidst a raging sea. Our lord seemed confident though, and now I understand why. I've never seen the berserk fury before. Very few of us are trained in it's ways. Beornoth and Wraecwulf are the only I know of in Aelfric's household troop. It's an incredible, an frightening sight to see. As soon as they had consumed their mushrooms, both of them began raving, and howling like beasts._

_Our men, who had formed a protective circle around our lord and the two berserkers, immediately stepped aside, as if afraid they'd lose limbs if they kept Beorn and Wulf from their prey. Cuthbert more or less confirmed this for me, when I mentioned this to him._

_"It's not wise to get between wolf and his food, if you get my meaning, lad. You don't stop these men until they're dead or the effects wear off. When that happens, we'll have to carry them out."_

_He paused to kill a charging skeleton, and then continued. _

_"It's the rage. While they're submerged in the battle madness, they can achieve extraordinary things. They can take blows that would fell a sober man, lift things a sober man couldn't, and move faster than a man should. But that comes at a steep price. It can kill a man, or at the very least leave them as feeble as an old woman when the effects of the mushrooms wear off. And that's if they're not killed in battle. Even madmen like them are mortal."_

_I asked him how long the effects of the mushrooms lasted for._

_"Hard to say. An hour, maybe longer. It depends. Those two know what they're doing, and they've been under the madness before. Perhaps as long as they allow it to control them."_

_I was about to ask him what he meant, when a spear almost ran me through. Cuthbert hacked the spear shaft, and I took the thrust on my shield. The…thing, as I've yet to come up with any proper labels for these foul creatures, stumbled with the lost momentum of his attack. I slammed my short sword in it's mouth and pushed. I still can't get used to the smell of their blood._

_I risked a glance in the direction Wulf and Beorn had gone, and swore. I couldn't see the two berserkers, but they had left a trail of rotting breadcrumbs. Rotting corpses lay on the ground like cobblestones, and black blood ran like rivers around our feet. _

_"By the Light…" Cuthbert had evidently followed my gaze. _

_Aelfric looked pleased, and he grinned, and pointed the standard towards the opened path. "Alright lads, pick up the pace, we'll get out of this yet!"_

_I wondered how my lord was even still standing. He had been fighting with a broken arm, was bleeding from several minor wounds, and as far as I knew, hadn't slept since our flight from Capital City. What I didn't notice was that he was being supported by two men, and that he could barely walk on his own. _

_Our island began moving faster. Fortunately for us, the poor soldiers of Lordaeron were providing the Scourge with the distraction we needed to move more or less unmolested through the horde. But we weren't out yet._

_Ahead of us, Beorn and Wulf came into view. They were fighting with one of the patchwork giants that had destroyed our shield wall. It was like watching two dogs fighting a bull. Beorn was nipping at it's heels, screaming half-words and foaming at the mouth. Wulf was trying to circle the monstrosity. I watched as Beorn threw his two-handed axe at the giant. The large, heavy blade slammed into the creature's face with so much force, it shattered the thing's skull. But still, it stood. _

_To my horror, Beorn was caught on a large meathook, chained loosely around the giant's arm. Cries of despair filled the air as we watched the abomination pull Beorn's limbs from his body like a cruel child pulls the wings from a fly. The whole time, though, Beorn kept hacking away at the thing with his sword, until he was nothing more than a limbless torso._

_Wulf, however, seemed to not take notice of his comrade's death. He had used Beorn's brave sacrifice to get behind the creature. Howling like a madman, he started hacking into the giant's ankle. Black blood and green slime poured from the wound, and he worked the limb like a woodsmen felling a tree. By the time the creature realized his second attacker was still there, Wulf's rage-fueled blows had hacked straight through it's ankle._

_With a gut-wrenching pop, followed by an even more nauseating slurping sound, the leg detached from the foot. Roaring through a broken mouth, the giant tried to keep it's footing, but a stump is hardly a foot, and it fell flat on its face. All of us cheered, and Aelfric waved the standard to a fro. _

_Ranting and raving, Wulf mounted the creature. Using his axe as a foot hold, he mounted the beast, staggering across it's flailing body. Gone was the calm, collected, and grim Wulf I knew. In his place was a man born of fury. His neck muscles were bulging, his eyes were wide with animal savagery, and his helmet was gone. Blood matted his golden mane, and painted his face crimson and black. I've never seen a man so savage looking. At that moment, he looked more like an orc than a man. I hope he will forgive me for saying that._

_Tripping, stumbling, screaming, and gnashing his teeth, Wulf made it to the abomination's head. And he just hacked. And hacked. And hacked. And hacked. And hacked. Long after the giant had stopped struggling, he continued to hack until the head was nothing but a pile of tiny bone fragments, black brain matter, hair, and teeth. A few men lost their stomachs. I'm not ashamed to say that I had too._

_The death of that patchwork leviathan was like flipping a switch for Wulf. He swung his axe one more time, and collapsed on the ground. None of us were sure if he was breathing. Aelfric, gave the order to move forward, and as we did, a couple men collected Wulf and his weapon from the ground and carried him alongside Aelfric. We were almost home free. Or well, close enough to be able to run home, so to speak._

_And then that bloody Death Knight showed up again. I guess none of us were paying attention, so focused were we on reaching the 'finish line'. The first we knew of it's reappearance was an ear splitting shriek, as Hengist's arm, complete with his shield went flying. Then, without warning, it was amongst us, mace swinging in brutal arcs that shattered shield and bone. Our close knot of men broke, and we scattered, trying to escape the reach of that cruel weapon. The two men carrying Wraecwulf made a run for it, dragging the poor berserker by his arms. I suppose they had run at Aelfric's order. I sought my lord, as did whatever few of his household troops remained. _

_Aelfric was staring down the Death Knight, standard clutched tightly in one hand, and his longsword in the other. Four men stood in front of him, shields at the ready. I joined them. _

_"Been a long night." That was Cuthbert, who had somehow managed to survive. _

_Aelfric somehow managed to laugh at that, though we all knew how exhausted he was._

_"You have one more chance, Baron Haraldson. I can forgive your earlier defiance. But look around you!" The creature, the Death Knight, spread its arms to encompass the slaughter around us. "You will not survive this. Kneel now, and your men can join you willingly as well. Otherwise, I am going to make you suffer."_

_Our lord remained silent, and the only response the Death Knight received was a wad of saliva on its gleaming black armor. _

_"Lads, you've served me, and Lordaeron well. It has been an honor to fight beside you, and I release you from your oaths of servitude, for service rendered honorably. Now get."_

_We all protested, but Aelfric would have none of it. "Did I stutter? You're no longer my soldiers, now get the hell out of here. I can take care of this bastard whoreson myself. But you cannot. And that caravan still needs protection, now more than ever. Go!"_

_Suitably chastened, we lowered our shields and started running. Before I departed, Aelfric stopped me._

_"Tell Wulf my words, and tell him he's served me well. He won't be happy to know he's missed this. Light guide your way, son."_

_I shook his hand. "And may the Light protect you, Lord."_

_And I left. I felt guilty as I made the hellish run to catch up with the others. I never did see what happened to Aelfric, but I think it's safe to assume that he died._

_It took us four hours to catch up to the caravan. As we came in to sight, various refugees surged forward to help us. I collapsed next to a wagon, suddenly numb and weak. I discovered that I had taken a blow on my left calf early in the battle, and never realized it. Fortunately, it was nothing serious, or I would have been dead long ago. _

_Only seven of us remain of all the Housecarls that went into that battle, as well as Lord Aelfric. There are a handful of soldiers that made it out as well, though they look worse than we do. Several are almost dead, and the rest are without weapons and armor. Of us seven, only Wulf is in bad condition. _

_As soon as we reached the caravan, we had him put up in a hay wagon, where a priest and apothecary awaited him. It was hard to tell what kind of wounds he had sustained, so covered in filth and blood was he. He remained unconscious for three days before he finally opened his eyes. While I was relieved that he lived, I was not looking forward to the unpleasant experience of giving him the news of Aelfric's death._


	4. Chapter 4: Mourning News

**Chapter Four: Mo(u)rning News**

"How are you feeling, Wulf?"

Raynar had never been a smart one, but I gave the boy a weak, patient smile.

"I feel, like I've been kicked in the head, perforated with a pitchfork, and set on fire."

Raynar gave me a look that told me my sarcasm had flown straight over his head. I shook my head and lay back in the straw that filled the wagon I'd been laying it for days. My weapons and armor were gone, and it felt strange to wear plain peasant's clothes. Cuthbert had assured me that all my gear was safe, and was being repaired as best as it could be by a smith traveling with the caravan.

"I'm fine boy, I'm fine. You don't look too banged up."

The boy smiled, though the expression looked hollow. I call him boy, but in truth, he was only a couple of years younger than me. It was his recent recruitment into Aelfric's household troop that had earned him the moniker.

"A few bruises, here and there. Took a sword blow to my calf." He indicated the linen wrapping around his left leg. "Nothing too bad though."

"So we made it after all. By the Light, I thought we were doomed back there." Back there was long gone, and by now, we were well clear of what was once the Kingdom of Lordaeron. I took stock of our surroundings.

Boulders and rolling green hills, under a dreary gray sky. The Arathi Highlands. I had been out for a long time indeed. But we were away from Lordaeron, and much safer for it. Though nowhere would be truly safe until we reached Stormwind, which was still quite a ways south.

"So, where's Beornoth?" I said, suddenly brightened by the prospect of reaching safety.

Raynar fidgeted, and looked away from me, looking at something far off in the distance.

"Beornoth's dead, Wulf."

I frowned, sitting up against the back of the wagon. "What do you mean, dead? What killed him?"

"You mean, you really don't remember?" He asked me.

"No, I don't know. I was submerged in the madness boy. Tell me."

After a moment's hesitation, Raynar told me the tale of what had happened after I had taken the mushroom. I listened eagerly, trying to piece together to the events from what the boy was telling me, and what fragments I could recall. I had little success.

The story stretched on for a couple hours, mostly because the boy was exaggerating his feats of strength, as a warrior always does. And when he was finished, I stared at him for a long time. I couldn't make up my mind as to whether or not I believed him.

"So that's it?"

"Wulf?"

"Well, I mean, we killed the beast and then we made a run for it? That's it? Seems a little too easy, boy."

Raynar squirmed under my gaze. He was hiding something. I have heard many men tell tales around a campfire, or in a crowded inn, and there is one consistent element in every story. When in a dire situation, nothing is ever described as easy. Sure, exaggerations are bound to happen, especially when a man speaks of himself, but that was exactly it. There was no exaggeration. No epic fight to breach the final line, no heroic duels, nothing. Apparently, we just strolled out, without a care.

"Where's Aelfric?" Now I was suspicious. Aelfric was a good man, and a better lord. He would have been the first to see me when I opened my eyes. And for that matter, I hadn't seen many Housecarls around.

"Wulf...take it easy. You're in no condition to get worked up."

"Oh shut the bloody hell up boy, and answer the damned question!" I snarled.

Looking back at that fateful day, I regret getting so mad with Raynar. I did not envy his position, or his job of breaking the news of Aelfric's death to me. But, hindsight is an orc with bowel problems, as my father used to say.

"Aelfric is…dead." It took the boy all his willpower to say the words.

I just stared. To me, Aelfric had been invincible, a god of battle. To know that he had been killed was a huge blow, and as painful as watching my family and kingdom die. To make matters worse, I had not been there to fulfill my duty as his retainer. He had died, and I had not been there to protect him.

"Where was I?" I finally managed to say, and I am not ashamed to admit that my voice had grown feeble.

Raynar didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the floor of the wagon.

"Where was I!" I growled, slamming my fist on the wooden planks beneath me. The boy jumped, startled, and started stammering. After a moment, I shook my head, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen, Raynar. I apologize for my anger, I just wish to know why I am here, and Aelfric isn't. What happened?"

And so, with a deep breath, and guilt-tinged words, Raynar filled in the ending of the story. I listened, not wanting to hear the truth, but knowing as a good servant must, that I needed to hear of Aelfric's fate.

When he was finished, I was unable to speak. I was angry, I was saddened, I was frustrated. Some of that anger was directed at Aelfric himself, for ordering me to consume the rage-mushroom. Had I been clear of mind, perhaps I would have been there at the end. I knew, logically, that there had been no other way. But logic and emotions are two very different things.

"And…he released us from our oaths?"

"Yes."

At least I didn't feel like a coward or traitor, with that knowledge. That was something else I was trying to wrap my head around. I was a free man, beholden to no one. There were no more oaths to fulfill, nothing. My life was my own once more. It felt, strange. I felt, lost. Most of my life had been spent in the servitude of someone. As a soldier during the second war, and later, under the command of Aelfric as his Housecarl. To be free…

These days, I am used to such freedom. I have spent much of my time searching for a new lord worth serving. Clearly, I have had poor luck in that endeavor. And so, I am used to doing what I wish, when I wish it, with no obligations or orders other than my own. Back then, that kind of freedom was incomprehensible to me. Granted, I was never a slave of any kind. It was willing servitude, a position in life that had brought me great pride and honor.

"What will I do now?"

"What?"

I had mentioned that thought out loud, without meaning to. I looked at Raynar, confused.

"I suppose we go our separate ways if we make it out of here alive. Maybe I'll put my axe down when all this ends. Find a wife, buy a farm, raise a family. What about you, Wulf?"

It took my a while to answer him. Truthfully, I didn't know the answer. Part of me longed for his dream of settling down and leaving war behind. My romantic view of war had died long ago on the fields of real battle, along with many orcs and good men. But what else was there. Azeroth is not a world of peace, and so peaceful lives are often short and cruel.

"Probably search for a new lord. Or take my axe back to the military, and take revenge for Aelfric."

"You don't want to settle down? Start a new life?"

"And what, Raynar? I do not know how to farm. This—" I grabbed his axe, which had been laying against the side of the wagon, and brandished it. "—Is all I know. I've been killing since before I had hair on my chest." That was somewhat true, actually.

"You can learn, you know."

I waved my hand dismissively. "I don't want any of it, boy. The plow isn't meant for me, at least not now. Maybe some day, far in the future. But not now. I will find a new lord, or take payment for the wrongs done to me, and Lordaeron."

Later that day, my war gear was returned to me. Most all of it was well-repaired, given the lack of proper supplies or a smithy. I emptied my coin purse and sent a boy to find the smith, and pay him his due. Later on, the smith turned up at my wagon. He dropped the coin purse in front of me.

"I can't accept this." He told me. The smith was a grizzled man, his hair graying, and lines beginning to creep their face across his dark skin.

"You repaired my weapons and armor, did you not?" I asked, a frown creasing my face.

The smith nodded, and glanced at the pile of mail and weaponry. "I did lord."

"I am no lord, just a warrior. Wulf, please."

"I did, Wulf."

I smiled, and gestured to the coin purse. "Then the coin is yours."

Once more, the smith shook his head, and raised his hands. "No, you've already paid. I can't accept this."

Puzzled, I leaned forward and grabbed the purse. It seemed heavier than when I had first sent it to the smith. "What do you mean?"

"Lord—Wulf, what you and your comrades did back…there." He meant the battle we had narrowly escaped from days ago. "That…was more than payment enough. My wife and children have a chance to live because of the blood you and your men shed for us. Otherwise we'd all be dead." I could sense the man was close to tears. I am not comfortable when tears are shed. So I sent the man away with my thanks, and the few coins I could convince him to take.

Before he left, he picked up my shield, and showed it to me. "I'm sorry I couldn't repair this for you. I didn't have the tools to shape new planks, or the leather hide to cover it. When we reach our destination, I can get what I need to re—"

I raised a hand to cut him off. I smiled, my expression, as always lopsided. I took an orc axe to the face a long time ago, and since, I've lost a lot of feeling or control of the left side of my face, as well as a nice scar to go along with it.

"No need, friend. I'll look after it myself. You've done more than enough."

The smith nodded, and turned to go, when an idea hit me. "Smith, wait a moment."

He turned, and regarded me with a curious look on his face. I raised my shield. "Do you have any black paint, or ink by chance?"

Confused, the smith looked around him, chewing his bottom lip in thought. "There is a woman here in the caravan who can make black dye. What for?"

I just smiled, and paid the man a handful of coins, enough for himself and to acquire the necessary amount of dye.

The next morning, the smith returned, the honest man that he was. He gave me a bowl of black die, some large leaves to use as brushes, and a sharp rock should I need to write. I thanked the man, sent him off, and found my shield. After several hours, I finished. The crest of Lordaeron, which had once been blue, was now black. Several names were written against the white background, names of those who meant much to me, who were now dead. I made an oath to myself as I finished my work.

I would never change the color of the crest until Lordaeron rose to glory once more. And though these days, I know that will never happen—Certainly not in my lifetime, if ever—I have continued to uphold that oath. To this day, worn though the black dye is, the crest remains black.

I have also never repaired the shield. I keep it as a reminder to everything I've lost, and everything I still fight for.


	5. Interlude: Facing the Future

**Interlude**

The rest of our journey to Stormwind was rather uneventful. There were further attacks and small skirmishes, though not by the Scourge.

Poor Raynar died a week after our difficult conversation, to a giant spider as we were crossing the southern border of the Highlands.

Cuthbert was shot through the throat by a bandit marksman as we entered Westfall, weeks later.

That was only mentioning a couple. I was the only Housecarl remaining when we arrived in Stormwind, and only a handful of the Lordaeron soldiers survived our journey. There had been many other caravans before us, and I had heard that some people had been brave enough to stay behind. I envy their thick headed bravery.

And so, Stormwind became my adopted homeland. I did make several trips back to Lordaeron, to fight the Scourge, however, though with limited success. Then the Dark Portal decided unleash hell again, and I was one of many brave warriors who traveled to the Outlands to combat the Burning Legion. I spent a long time there, fighting demons, beasts, naga…some of the most horrifying things you can imagine. Eventually, though, the situation was stabilized, and I returned just in time for the first expedition to Northrend.

The tales of my adventures in the Outlands are mediocre at best, and never was I to play a big part in anything. I was just another faceless hero combating the darkness that hangs perpetually over our world.

But in Northrend, I was to discover that my flight from Lordaeron had left some loose ends, ones I had almost forgotten by the time I set foot on the frozen shores of that cursed continent…


	6. Chapter 6: Snowshoes Optional

**Chapter Five: Snowshoes Optional**

"You don't need 'em, sir, trust me. It ain't that bad." He'd said to me, when I wanted to purchase a pair of snowshoes.

If I ever see that scrawny little shit again, I'm going to split him in half and do a jig on his corpse.

'Not that bad' was four feet of thick snow, gale force winds, blinding snowstorms, and creatures of darkness waiting beneath the thick layer of white covering the land. I'd bundled up as best as I could. Two thick wool tunics, under a leather shirt, covered by mail, which in turn was covered by an Argent Crusade tabard. And over all of that, I had my white bear-skin cloak. A black scarf was wrapped about the lower half of my face, over which I wore by helm. In short, I could barely move, let alone see, and I was stuck in the middle of a torrential blizzard.

I was part of a column of Argent Crusade soldiers, and Death Knights of the Ebon Blade. We were en route to the gates of the Ice Crown citadel, where a siege was already in progress.

We had been ambushed a handful of times over the three days we had been marching. Fortunately, we had suffered only minor casualties. The Death Knights were probably the only reason we were still alive. I have no problem admitting that I'm damn good with a weapon, and the truth of that statement is proven by the fact that I'm here to tell this story. But Death Knights are so much more than just warriors. Having magic, as fell and dark as it is, to call upon makes a huge difference on a battlefield. That's not to say I was comfortable around them. They were partly responsible for the death of Lordaeron, and countless numbers of its citizens.

But they seemed sincere about helping, and many of the Knights accompanying us were as bitter as I was.

In the far distance, even through the blinding snow, I could see the black outline of the citadel, like the blade of a black sword, murdering the sky. I estimated it would be another two days before we reached the Ashen Verdict siege camp.

If the weather got worse…

"Halt!" The man on point had to scream to be heard over the howling wind. We stopped, and I walked up towards the front of the column. Well, perhaps walk is not the appropriate word. Stagger is more fitting.

I reached the head of the column to find the point man talking with a hulking figure in black plate. His name, from what I remembered was Steiner von Pestis. Despite holding no real rank in the Ebon Blade, he was intimidating, as were all of his kind. Among his comrades, he had acquired the nickname 'Hammer of the Ebon Hold'. It seemed fitting. Steiner's face was blunt, and strong. The man was muscled like an ox. Armor blacker than night covered his frame, engraved with images of death and destruction. Across his back was a massive glaive, brutal and simplistic in look.

Compared to Steiner, the Death Knight I had met back in the Third War was but a child.

"…movement, sir."

"You thought. But I do not see anything, nor do I feel anything. We keep moving."

The point man scared witless by the Death Knight in front of him.

"What's going on?" I said, walking up beside the two. Steiner glared at me. The point man looked at me gratefully. He took a breath, looked at Steiner, and then quickly diverted his gaze to me.

"I saw movement over that-a-way—" He pointed forward and a little to the left of the column. "Not sure what it was. Just black shapes."

I removed my helmet, the edges of my ears stinging against the wind, and my eyes tearing up instantly. I squinted, but could make out nothing in the whirl of white. But we had been ambushed before, and though it was probably nothing we couldn't handle, no one wanted any unnecessary losses. Except maybe the Death Knights, who didn't care enough about individual life to bother with precautions. One trait they kept from their service to the Lich King.

"I don't see anything. Perhaps we should make camp here, and post sentries. It will be dark soon, and we won't be able to travel at night." I held no real rank. I wasn't even a member of the Argent Crusade, just an adventurer signed on to help fight the good fight. The only reason I wore a tabard was so no one killed me by accident.

"You do not command here, human."

"Then who does? You? You couldn't command your way out of a paper bag. People like you only know how to fight. You don't know how to make decisions." I snarled in response, though I'm sure the vitriol was lost amongst the howling wind.

The actual commander had been killed on the first day out, during one of the ambushes. Because we were so lucky, he happened to be one of only five dead men.

"And who do you suggest, human? Yourself? I have heard of you, some of the others talk at night. You're nothing more than a servant, and grunt. If I have no skill to lead, what makes you better? From the way it sounds, we are no different, you and I."

I won't lie. I wanted to sink my axe into his skull, and split it like a rotten watermelon. I wanted to pull his fingernails out, skin him alive, and dump his skinless body in a vat of saltwater. For three days, I had put up with that bastard. Steiner von Pestis was arrogant, hot headed, brainless, and had the most abrasive personality of anyone I've ever met.

"Sure. Personally, I'd be happy with anyone but you. I know your kind doesn't care about sacrifice or life, but I like my head fixed firmly on my body, as I'm sure the rest of these boys here do. I don't mind dying here, but not in some pointless ambush. I'd rather waste it where it can make a difference." I stabbed a finger towards the black shape of the Citadel on the horizon.

"But no, I'd like to think I have a firm grasp of tactics, and I've advised a few battles in my day. Let me ask you a question…friend."

Steiner waited, his arms crossed. He had that sneer on his face, that look of superiority. The same look the first man I killed had. Ah, good memories.

"What were you before you died?"

The sneer fell from his face. He spat a gobbet of black ichor and looked away. "A thief."

That sneer crossed the distance between us, and landed on my face, albeit more disproportionate. "And I am a soldier. I've been killing since before my balls dropped. Who has more experience?"

Instead of replying, Steiner spat another wad of thick black fluid at my feet and stalked away. "Fine. Do what the _commander _says." Even though I was frozen solid, my veins felt like they were pumping fire.

The point man looked at me, and I gave him the affirmative. He walked away, passing the order along the column. Within an hour, we had a decent camp set up. As soon as my tent was set up, I collapsed on my bedroll and fell into an uneasy sleep.


	7. Chapter 7: Night Terrors

**Chapter Six: Night Terrors**

"_Who commands this rabble?"_

"_I reckon I do." The words spill from my mouth before I realize it._

_I look around. The air is cold, but not the strength sapping cold of Nothrend. There is no snow, either. Just a dirt road running through a small clearing in a forest. Off in the distance the horizon glows an angry orange against the night sky. But it is not the sun. It is fire. _

_I am back in Lordaeron. But the words are not mine. I look down, I am wearing Aelfric's armor. Silvered chain mail, polished black gauntlets, a golden chain around my neck. My helmet is different too. In my hands are a large shield, and Aelfric's sword 'Soul-Crusher'. _

_But this is not me. What is this?_

"_And you are?" As I expected, the Death Knight stands before me. Behind me is the shield wall I remember standing it. I take a moment to search the faces of the men. But their features run like water, and I cannot make out individuals. Faces blur and run when I focus on them, and they remain indistinct, anonymous. I turn back to the Death Knight. _

"_Wraecwulf Ranulfson. And you?" I reply, as if I have no control over my own mouth. If I am Wraecwulf, why am I wearing the armor of my lord?_

_The Death Knight stares at me, icy orbs piercing deep into my soul from within the depths of it's full faced helm. "You will find out soon enough. But right now, I come to you with an offer."_

_I finally gain control of myself. "What is this? Where am I?" I snarl, gripping the shield and sword tightly in my hands._

_A hissing, hacking noise. It's laughing at me. "Why, Lordaeron, of course. Don't you recognize it? Though we have made some…decorative changes to your cities. Wouldn't you like to hear my offer?"_

_I spit on the ground, the saliva vanishing in a cloud of smoke as it hits a ground now made of human thigh bones. With horror, I realize some of the bones are too short to be those of an adult. _

"_An offer from a thing like you? Never! Your tongue crafts only lies!"_

_Another laugh. It must be toying with me. "Well, I shall offer you anyways, because my master so loves new servants. I offer you willing servitude. Power, immortality! What more could a man want?"_

_The Death Knight takes another step towards me, the thigh bones cracking and grinding beneath his heavy tread._

"_What more? I want my village back. I want my family back. I want my lord back. I want my King back. Can your 'King' offer me that?"_

_A pause. I don't think it expected this. Two-dimensional, these things._

"_What do you need a village or family for? When you have immortality, and power beyond your comprehension, what more do you need?"_

"_ENOUGH!" I scream, my throat burning, and my head pounding with barely contained anger._

"_Either fight, or leave me be." I growl, stepping back into the shield wall. _

"_Very well, Wulf. You have made your choice."_

_A horde of faceless horrors appear opposite of our shield wall, and surge forward. I grit my teeth, and brace myself for impact. But this is not the Lordaeron I remember, and not the battle I fought. The shield wall splinters, and men die with ease._

_They scream as they die, accusing me of dooming them. There is nothing I can do. I scream wordlessly, like a caged beast fighting a futile battle against the steel bars that trap it. Hacking, battering, slicing, and stabbing, I wade into the faceless horde assaulting my men. None of the creatures attack me, and instead concentrate on my comrades, tearing them limb from limb. Boiling blood runs from their wounds, and runs in rivers between bones, under a moon shaped like a skull. _

_And then the horde parts, and the Death Knight approaches me. I test the grip on my sword and shield. No, not my sword, not my shield, Aelfric's. _

"_You should've just said yes, bastard whelp!" It hisses at me, and it's weapon screams towards my head._

_Just as it had happened so long ago, the shield intercepted the blow, a shattered. I flew across the road, my arm broken and numb. Landing with a thud, I rolled aside just in time to dodge the Death Knight's axe, watching the blade slam home into the earth just inches from my face. I lashed out with my foot, feeling it connecting with solid steel. The Death Knight stumbled back, and I rose to my feet, dancing backwards to avoid a disemboweling stroke. _

_The screams faded as the last of the men died. A ring formed around the Death Knight and myself. Leering skulls stared at me from every direction. And so caught up in it was I, that I barely sidestepped another downward stroke. With horror, I realized the axe the Knight was wielding, was my own Spirit-Breaker. My eyes catch the crest of Lordaeron engraved into the blade. It has been defaced, crudely scratched and cut to form something more akin to the runes I've seen adorning Death Knight weaponry. _

_The sight fills me with rage, and I hack at the Knight's wrist as the axe falls past me. With an unearthly scream, the black metal splits beneath the force of my blow, and the hand comes off at the wrist. I get no time to celebrate my minor victory, as I'm thrown across the battlefield in retaliation. The ring of horrors parts to let me fall badly on my broken shield arm. I cry out in pain, my stomach churning as I see my arm bone jutting through leather and mail. _

_As I rise to my feet, I see the Death Knight approach. I raise my sword to ward a blow I know I cannot stop. But it is not a physical attack that hits me. A bolt of pure blackness, so dark it seems to devour the light around it, hits me square in the chest. My heart stops for a moment, and then every nerve in my body screams in horrible agony. I scream, and scream. There is no shame it, any man would. A shadow falls over me as I fall to my knees. The Death Knight. Hissing and hacking, it mocks my pain. Rage mingles with the agony, but my hands spasm and I drop Soul-Crusher. _

"_You should have accepted my offer. Either way, you'll serve. I'll give you one more ch—"_

"_Spare me—" I say through clenched teeth, my eyes filled with utter hate. "—I've heard all this before. Go bugger yourself, you orc-fondler!" I snarl, my defiance pathetic against such strength. _

_It laughs again, and removes its helm. My defiance is snuffed out like a candle. _

"_No…"_

_Laughter. Anger turns to despair, and that makes the agony coursing through my body that much worse. _

"_Oh yes. Whether or not I had wanted it, I served. Just as you will. I was fortunate. Our little last stand impressed someone very important. And now? I'm glad I stayed behind."_

"_Ael—" I couldn't even finish his name. "Lord…what have they done to you?"_

"_I was given the ultimate gift! Immortality! The power to crush anyone who stands in my way! A gift you too could have, Wulf."_

_I shake my head, numb with shock. "No, no. You are not Aelfric…and this is not real!"_

_Aelfric stamps on my broken arm, splintering and grinding the bones further. I scream again, and he laughs. "Feels real enough, I think, doesn't it?"_

"_No! I am not here! I am in Northrend! Lordaeron is dead, it has been for years! Let me out of this dream!"_

"_Oh no, there won't be an end to this for you." He stamps on my arm again, I can't even scream anymore, my voice is gone. _

"_Then I'll let myself out…" I whisper through blood-caked lips, and I slip my short knife from the sheath on my belt, and plunge it into Aelfric's ankle, between the gap in his armor. My lord shrieks, and with pure reflex, his axe descends on my head. _

_Blackness. Pain. A voice._


End file.
